Passion
by It's yo choice
Summary: He just wants more of his passion, more of it, and more of him.


**A/N: Haay this is my first one shot and yea my second fic since I started my first one yesterday. I've been one of those lurkers reading without reviewing for about three years already (I'm sorry :c) I decided to maybe start writing too and please forgive me creys. Yep, so on to the story (kinda)**

He is everything you are not. He is special, and he is distinct, while you are ordinary, but distinct only for your curse.

He is passionate. Passionate in art of sword fighting, passionate in his beliefs, and passionate with all his anger. He is a passionate in his beauty too, with passionate dark eyes. Yours, though, are grey. Not black, but not white either. Just in between, neutral, ordinary.

You have passionate hair, though, you think. White, from a curse. But you hate it, and every time you look in the mirror, you are reminded of how you killed the only person willing to love you, and with your own hand, and you try not to cry.

White and black. Somehow this makes you feel a semblance of happiness.  
He hates you, and you hate him, and you exchange angry passionate words, and angry passionate blows.

Your masks get blown away with him. In front of him, you lay bare, and you are unable to put up any fronts. Because he is special, he is different, someone like you would get pulled away and sucked into him.

You throw insults at each other loosely, and they turn into insults with hidden meanings, a hidden meanings of things more special, more passionate than your own existence will ever be.

Every blow you exchange, you love. you love the way it hurts, and you love the fact that he acknowledges someone as forgettable as you. but mostly, you love the way he manages to make you feel passionate, and the way he makes you feel alive again.

Painful blows turn into passionate touches, and soon your heads collide with each other and you find yourself wanting more of this contact, more, more of this passion.

You stare at his eyes, and from the dark depths, you see more. More passion than you have before, and you long, long for it, and you long for him.

Your nights staring at dull, plain walls, turn into passionate nights with sweaty bodies and just bursting passion, from your very pores. He feels hot, and your cold body absorbs his warmth. Somehow, you don't feel all that ordinary anymore. You feel more whole, more complete, and again, more alive. There is warmth in you heart then.

You keep reminding yourself not to fall, not to fall too deep in, into the him, into the passion. Because he is passion.

But you break when you see him with another, and you find out a different kind of passion. And you find that what you felt towards him wasn't hate, but something else, and what you feel now towards that other man above him is passionate hatred, and hurt. And this time, this time this pain is not something you love.

Your passionate nights continue, but with that other, and no. Not with him anymore. You avoid him, because he is too precious, too precious to be near you, too precious to be tainted by you.

The other confesses to you every day, of undying love for you, and all you think about is him. And you think about how he looks wistfully in your direction at times. But then you realize it is not you he looks at, but the other.

You grit your teeth and yourself it will be over soon. One day, he will be solely yours.

The next day, the other is rid from the world. He mourns, but he looks at you now. With passion. You smile.

He comes back to you, and you to him. But one night, he screams the other's name. He says he knows what you did. He says he doesn't love you, for how could he love another?

You realize then, that you can't have him, because he had the other. He still belongs to the other, even though the other no longer exists.

But you still want him, you will not let him go. And you will make sure he does not escape.

You take him, and you hold him hard and tight. You trap him in your arms, not letting go, not letting him go. He keeps resisting, always resists. But you are persistent, because you've learnt passion from him.

You smile, because there's this saying that two lovers, as they love together, more, they become more like each other. You smile again, and think that this is how you'll be more like him.

You will do anything to be lovers with him. You will do anything to have him.

So you trap him, harder and tighter than you have before. He stops struggling, but his mouth keeps spouting words of resistance, words of hate for you. And he keeps telling you, of how much he loves the other, how much he misses the other, and how much he hates you, for killing his love, and for being you.

You get angry. All you want is him. Just for him to be passionate to you only. To love you, and to want you back. You don't want to hear of how much he feels for the other, you want to hear him speaking passionately to you, and of you, speaking words of love to you like he has before the other came into the picture. But he never does that. All he speaks to you is words of hate, and you let your anger control you.

At least you're passionate now, you think. You want him passionately. You crave for him. His voice, though, keeps rejecting you as he passionately confesses his hatred for you, and you want to put a stop to that.

You do, and your fingers do the magic.

From then on, he resists no more. He does not try to escape from you and feel content, knowing that you have trapped him. You have trapped passion, and he is now yours, laying right next to you. You kiss his cheek and he doesn't resist you. Yes, he is truly yours no

He is no longer passionate. But he still looks the embodiment of passion, with his timeless and passionate beauty. He no longer moves, or screams, or even reacts to you and your touches.

You touch his face, and you feel no warmth. He used to be so hot, why does he feel so cold now? You panic, and search around this body, trying to feel that warmth, that fire he used to emit. It is gone though, and so is he.

Your eyes widen, and you tell yourself that no, he is just getting used to you, the cold and ordinary being that is you. And because you are lovers, he just is becoming more like you.

You smile and sigh, lying down next to him, stroking his beautiful dark hair.

Days later, they interrupt your time with him. You hear gasps of horror and disgust. And you hear a girl crying, and whispers about you being crazy.

You wonder why they cry, why they mourn. They are the crazy ones, not you. You look at your beloved and grab his cold hand, squeezing it tight because you know he understands you.

You don't see that you have again, with your own hands, taken away another life.


End file.
